


Baiser

by uleanblue



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Pastry abuse, Romance, Snoke is gross but we already knew that, eventual kinkiness, mention of coercive sexual activity/prostitution, no not really, sort of a Grand Budapest Hotel au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-01-05 08:29:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12186513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uleanblue/pseuds/uleanblue
Summary: She hears his voice, then, deep and commanding, as the elevator descends to the kitchen level with a low, trembling whine. Her already hollow stomach churns.Damn it.Ren is General Manager atL’hotel du Premierewhen he notices the girl who delivers the pastries.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. 
> 
> If you squint, this is sort of a Grand Budapest Hotel AU. 
> 
> This is also a short first chapter. Like super short. But it's a way for me to get back into writing after an absolutely shittacular year. 
> 
> My posting schedule tends to be...erratic. Just letting you know.
> 
> Many thanks to owly for help with the title!
> 
> Anyway, comments are love!
> 
> * * *

For as long as anyone in Takodana can remember, the pastries from Unkar Plutt's _La Marjolaine_ bakery have made their way to various establishments in a royal blue painted pastry wagon. It's something of a local tradition, handed down from Unkar’s grandfather, Grod. 

Rey is...well, fairly indifferent to tradition. 

However. 

She _hates_ the cart. 

Well before the first rosy gold rays of sun crest the rooftops along her route, she wrestles and shoves the outdated, unwieldy _piece of shit_ wood and iron barrow over cobbled streets, wheels screeching and clacking the whole way like some sort of demented clown car. 

_Whoever said the squeaky wheel gets the grease never had to push this ridiculous bloody thing._

Honestly, it's a miracle that any of her carefully crafted baked goods make it to their destination intact; that they do is a testament to her determination not to forfeit the already meager allotment of food that Plutt deigns to provide her. How such a crass, miserly bastard manages to produce the lightest, flakiest pie crust in three counties is simply beyond her. 

By the time she steers her way up the delivery ramp at the back of the _L’hotel du Premiere_ , her arms quiver with fatigue and she’s perspiring, despite the cool morning air. Inside the cramped service elevator she leans back, rests against the wall with a drawn out sigh. She’s almost done. The promise of sleep and food beckons to her. 

Warm fragrant tendrils of vanilla and cinnamon waft upward as Rey grips the cart laden with the fruits of her daily toil - delicate cream filled pastries, lush layered cakes drenched in ganache, petit fours, eclairs, and at the bottom, baguettes, soft buttery rolls and flaky croissants. Her mouth waters and her stomach lets out a rumble of want, but she's grown well accustomed to waiting. 

She hears his voice, then, deep and commanding, as the elevator descends to the kitchen level with a low, trembling whine. Her already hollow stomach churns. _Damn it._

So much for slipping in to deliver her goods unnoticed. 

She doesn’t want to be noticed. By Monsieur Ren, especially. 

She can count the number of times she's ever actually seen him on one hand - plus, it's been from a distance. However, something about him unsettles her. She isn't entirely sure what. 

A nerve shattering _crash_ from outside the elevator jolts her from her thoughts, and she draws a sharp breath as the sounds of bustling activity evaporate into a deathly silence. _Oh, no._ Apprehension coils up her spine. _This can't be good_. On the heels of that, without a trace of guilt comes _at least it isn’t me._

When the door slides open a second later, she is met by a tableau reminiscent of a scene from an Old Masters painting. Monsieur Ren is clearly enraged, looming at the center like some mythic figure casting judgement upon his flock - one arm outstretched, his face a mask of scowling condemnation. He barks out directions as workers scurry around him to do his bidding, backs hunched in submission. An enormous porcelain vase lays shattered across the tiled floor, but as if by magic several members of the staff produce brooms and dustpans, sweeping away the debris with startling efficiency. 

Monsieur Ren’s episodes of anger are _legendary._ Like, raging thunderheads and piercing, icy blasts of wind and lightning kind of legendary. Destructive. Catastrophic to those unfortunate or perhaps foolhardy enough to be caught within its grasp. 

Rey casts a quick, fervent plea to the heavens to make her delivery as speedy and _uneventful_ as possible. _Get in, get out. She who hesitates is lost and all that._

Luck, however, is not on her side today. As she tries to propel the heavy cart forward, one wheel sticks, and the whole cart rattles noisily as she struggles with it. His head swivels toward her, then. 

His eyes lock with hers and for the briefest of moments she freezes like a deer in headlights. His brow unfurrows, his thunderous expression sliding into an inscrutable mask as he regards her. 

Oh, but he is striking. Unnervingly so. This is the closest she has ever been to him, and her brain clicks forward then, that his is not the bland, conventional handsomeness of men whose pictures grace the cinema magazines she occasionally pilfers from the library. There is an incongruity to it, an arresting combination of features that individually might not necessarily be considered beautiful, but as a whole is quite compelling. What is the saying? _More than the sum of its parts._ Yes, that's it. Coupled with the sheer forcefulness of his personality, he is...well, the only word she can coherently latch onto at that moment is _dangerous_. 

A faint blush comes to her cheeks as she realizes that she’s been caught staring. Under the guise of examining the pastries for damage, she reclaims her equilibrium, then breaks the spell by jutting her chin out just a fraction and heaving the cart forward without meeting his eyes again. She isn't sure, but out of the corner of her eye she thinks she sees the corners his mouth curl into a tiny smile.

Despite her best intentions, from the moment she wheels the cart out of the hotel, all the way back to the cold silence her dingy little room, she can think of little but him. His shock of thick, black hair. Eyes that remind her of dark, melted caramel. _Dangerous._ Curled under her threadbare quilt she gnaws on a slightly stale bread end and chides herself for her foolish fancy. He is a _man_ \- worldly and self possessed, while she...she is no one. 

The next day plays out in a similar fashion, as does the day after. 

For the rest of the week he is present in the kitchens, overseeing the menus or directing staff when she arrives. It can’t possibly be coincidental. He’s the general manager, surely he's needed at the front desk? 

The swooping, fluttery feeling in her abdomen is just hunger. It has nothing to do with her noticing when he glances at her. 

One morning he isn't there. It would be highly inappropriate, not to mention mortifying for her to ask after him, but as it happens she overhears the staff discussing their relief that he has been called away to a meeting. 

The disappointment she feels at his absence shocks her.

She begins to understand why she avoided him to begin with. 

 

 


	2. chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for mention of coercive sexual activity and dubious consent have been added.

He hates the monthly meetings. 

For the most part they're a fucking waste of his time, nothing more than the same useless droning on about occupancy figures and profitability. Boring. And worse, _redundant._

Today is worse, somehow. He’s restless, and it's difficult to focus. It's easy enough to pinpoint the reason why. Casting a sidelong glance at Snoke, Ren is relieved that his boss hasn't caught on to his inattentiveness. _Yet_.

After a few more minutes, though, of listening to a ridiculous presentation on improving, of all things, _check in efficiency_ he quits fighting it, and allows his thoughts to gravitate toward the girl who has somehow managed to capture his interest without so much as lifting a finger. His preoccupation with her borders on the absurd. She’s the diametric opposite of the wealthy, well coiffed women he sometimes _entertains_ at Snoke's behest. Just a lowly pastry girl - a no one. 

She doesn't wear a stitch of makeup, keeps her hair pinned up in some odd configuration for what he can only assume are practical purposes. Her dresses are modest, almost prim - clearly secondhand, yet meticulously neat, as is the pristine white apron cinched around her midsection that accentuates her narrow waist. If it weren’t for that gaudy wheeled contraption she’s forced to haul across the length of the city she’d be just another faceless service worker. Invisible. 

So what is it about her that compels him to place himself in her orbit like some sort of lovestruck schoolboy?

_Spirited. She embodies this strange, intoxicating mix of innocence and strength, seemingly undiminished by her status in life, and she certainly doesn't appear to be intimidated by me._

_And because she’s beautiful, that's why._

This girl - _girl_. His brain abruptly grinds to a panicked halt. _Fuck. Is she even legal?_ He has to find out. Today, if possible. 

 

This girl, Rey, unassuming, almost nondescript at first glance, so easily overlooked amongst the painted caricatures of femininity vying for his attention, is beautiful. Alarmingly so. Each glimpse of her, from the delicate slope of her neck when she tilts her head, from the deft movement of slender wrists and hands, all the way down to slim, graceful ankles, draws him deeper and deeper into a murky, unfamiliar pool of infatuation that threatens to swallow him whole. 

And oh, her eyes. Hazel green shot through with gold, like warm afternoon sun slanting through a verdant forest. If eyes are truly a window into the soul, then Christ, he's in trouble. He barely contains a half disbelieving laugh at his predicament.

No, he’s not in trouble. He’s _fucked._

It's gotten to the point that he's actually creating reasons to move closer to her - the malfunctioning cart tops the list - it's- 

It's pathetic how badly he wants to touch her. 

_What would she do? Startle and flee like a doe in the wild? Or...would she be receptive?_

_Would she like it if he touched her?_

Idly, he imagines his broad hands resting on her waist, right above the soft flare of her hips _holding her in place, dipping his head down to capture her soft, petal pink lips in a kiss. He'd start off so very gently - just the barest brush of his mouth against hers. Would she close her eyes? Or would she watch as he tastes her?_

He’s completely unprepared for the searing electric shock of arousal that jolts through him at the thought. Quickly his thoughts progress to visualizing his fingers slowly sliding up the outside of lean, faintly trembling thighs, the fabric of her skirt bunching up as he moves higher, _higher -_

 _God._ He wants her.

Glancing down at his hands, he shifts in his seat and hopes his expression remains suitably impassive. His cock is hard, pressing uncomfortably against his pants. _He lays her back, hands curled around her ribs while his thumbs slowly tease her taut rosy nipples - she tips her knees apart, shyly, face beautifully flushed as she exposes her sex to him -_

It takes a full minute for him to register that the room has gone completely silent. 

Snoke reclines in his seat, hand rolled cigarette clamped between bony, tobacco stained fingers. He exudes an air of relaxed indulgence, as if witnessing his executive manager’s foray into erotic woolgathering was a common occurrence. Ren knows better. He clears his throat, opens his mouth to speak but halts as Snoke jerks his head at the other managers. “That will do for today. You're all dismissed.” His tone is congenial, but he spears Ren with a glare that says _not you_. 

Once the last manager files out, pulling the door closed behind him, Snoke turns on him. 

“It isn't like you to be so...distracted. I get the distinct feeling there is something I should know about.” he states, his irritation palpable. “You haven’t knocked up some floozy, have you?” 

“No,” he chokes out, horrified. He wonders briefly if Snoke is somehow excited at the prospect of catching him in a falsehood - judging by the calculating gleam in his eyes, he might very well be. “But... _check in efficiency_?” He pulls himself together enough to infuse his tone with disdain. “Half the continent on the verge of war and this is what that buffoon fixates on? It’s insulting. Besides, my staff consistently earns top marks for service.”

“Hmmm. That they do.” 

He then takes a long drag of his cigarette, regarding Ren with silent shrewdness, and he understands then, with bone deep sureness what’s coming next. 

After all, Snoke loves nothing more than a good segue. 

“Speaking of service, I have a client whose impending visit to our establishment will require your most _diligent_ attention.” 

It’s a strange sensation, to have his cheeks flush with heat while ice clenches his gut. He knows exactly the _sort_ of service that Snoke is requesting. 

What is perhaps more shocking than the order to once again essentially prostitute himself is a nearly overwhelming reticence that he’s never experienced. Before, though - before _Rey_ \- he would perform his duty with a sort of numb, detached, _diligent_ professionalism. And it shouldn’t matter. There is nothing between him and the girl that should burden his conscience in the least, yet all he wants to do right now is beg off this demeaning assignation. 

Still, he nods. “Who is the client?”

“The rather eccentric, but spectacularly wealthy Madame Netal.”

“Bazine?” 

“No, the elder.”

“The Grand Duchess? I’ve read she’s been ill -”

Snoke simply speaks over him, “There is a painting - you may have heard of it -” Snoke says, gesturing with his cigarette, “The Hermit and the Ocean. It’s priceless. Apparently she takes it with her wherever she travels.” A beat passes. “I want it. You’re going to get it.”

Ren doesn't think he's ever lost an erection as quickly as he does at that moment. 

“You want me to fuck an eighty year old woman with cancer. For a painting.” 

Because of course he does.

There’s a rheumy, bubbling sound as Snoke chuckles. It makes him feel vaguely sick. 

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, my dear boy,” he replies with deceptive airiness, before he draws one last time on the stub between his fingers. “You _will_ get this for me.”

His unspoken _or else_ hangs in the air like the Sword of Damocles. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...after weeks of not being able to write _at all,_ I finally managed to eke out a bit more. 
> 
> Oh, and this is shaping up to be the filthiest thing I've ever written, so there's that. 
> 
> Comments are love!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, there. It's been a while.

The cart continues to be a piece of shit. 

Except now, it’s a progressively less functional piece of shit, and Rey has decided that it’s sole remaining purpose is to make her already dismal existence even more hellish. Predictably, Plutt only cares that the job gets done, and gives zero shits about the conditions under which she has to operate. 

When she isn’t desperately angling around corners and taking shortcuts up sidestreets in order to meet her daily stops - while still taking care not to damage the goods, she fantasizes about setting the goddamn thing on fire. 

Despite all her efforts - leaving earlier, pushing harder and faster to where the exertion burns through the paper thin margins of her already precarious energy reserves, the day finally comes that she ends up arriving late to _l'Hotel du Premiere_.

Her knuckles are white, her palms clammy with perspiration on the handle of the cart as she manhandles it into the elevator. 

Before her, the morning meeting is already well underway. As always, Monsieur Ren cuts quite a broad, imposing figure as he paces, and speaks to the assembled kitchen staff.

Clustered to one side, the bellboys and other lobby staff stand with postures ramrod straight as soldiers, expressions blank as paper. They observe the proceedings in silent, perfect attention, the embossed silver buttons of their uniform jackets gleaming, bright stars against crisp, pressed black gabardine. 

Ideally, she would salvage the dishonor of her tardiness by quietly maneuvering the cart to its destination and unloading its contents with as much focused efficiency as she can muster, then slip away, minimizing the distraction caused by her intrusion. 

Reality is not nearly so kind. 

All eyes - including Monsieur Ren’s - snap to her as the grating squeal of poorly lubricated bearings announce her arrival. She flushes red but keeps moving, determined to complete her task and get the hell out of there. Without a word Mitaka, one of the line cooks, edges over to her and wordlessly assists her in unloading the long baguettes from the bottom tier of the cart.

“Well?” Monsieur Ren fixes the staff with a glare laden with enough icy menace to shrivel the testicles of the stoutest bull. “Anyone care to explain last night’s flambé debacle?”

 _Oh, that’s not good_. 

“No?” He picks up two bottles, holds them aloft. “No one here can tell the difference between... banana liqueur and _grain alcohol_?”

No one dares speak, presumably because not a single one of them wish to become the next focal point of Monsieur’s escalating wrath. 

“In one week, the Grand Duchess Netal will arrive, along with several members of the royal family and their entourages. Those of you who wish to remain employed at this hotel would do well to remember precisely the quality of service our guests have come to expect. Which, at the very least, means _not setting them on fire!!_ ” 

Rey glances up when she hears him pause _and oh God, he's staring at her, jaw set and brows drawn together. She's as good as dead._ He pivots, though, setting the bottles down and the moment passes. 

Oddly, she doesn’t feel terrified any more - unlike Mitaka, who looks miserable, hunched in on himself like a rabbit waiting for death. Instead, a strange, almost spacey sort of detachment settles over her as she casts furtive glances his way. 

He halts before a stocky, dull faced bellboy who would probably be hard pressed to remember his own name if it weren’t printed on the badge on his lapel.

“You. What do you do here?”

“I carry the baggage, sir.” 

Ren’s eyes slide shut, his nostrils flare as he takes a breath to calm himself. “Of course you do.” For a moment he regards the young man. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Teedo, sir.”

“Well, _Teedo_ ,” he drawls, “why are you here?”

Teedo begins to perspire, his face growing blotchy and distressed as his cognitive processes are clearly pushed to their limit. 

Rey sincerely doubts he would understand the word rhetorical if it were tattooed in large block print on his rather sizable backside. Still, she feels a brief, tiny pang of sympathy for the unfortunate dullard. 

“I...carry... baggage... **SIR**!” Teedo half shouts, half sobs. 

Ren eyes him with a vaguely horrified expression before clapping Teedo once on the shoulder, then turning away and muttering, “you're not kidding.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

Ren rubs his index finger in circles against his temple and ponders the sudden, unexpected appeal of running away to become an itinerant musician. _If only I'd paid more attention during those violin lessons. Well. There’s always the circus._

“Dismissed,” he says wearily, then adds, “I'll be in my office.” 

He strides away without another glance in her direction. 

She's practically dizzy with relief that she's not in trouble, and it doesn't occur to her that the spots in her vision are a warning until her limbs suddenly go all sluggish and uncoordinated. She barely manages to set a cake on the work table without dropping it, eyeing it with alarm. _Shit, there's a dimple in the fondant_ is her last coherent thought before everything goes black. 

* * *

He needs a drink. Badly. 

The last fourteen hours have been an absolute clusterfuck, though Mr. Wexley’s sizzled eyebrows and half melted toupee don't garner quite the same potential career ending awfulness as last winter’s disaster, when the elderly, distinguished Senator Casterfo dropped dead from a massive coronary while cavorting naked in his suite with not one, but three women who were, to put it charitably, barely legal. 

Still, he can’t afford to give the staff any quarter, because if he yields so much as an inch, they will take a mile. 

And next week must be... _perfect_. He still doesn't know precisely how he's going to obtain the painting, as he doesn't have a concrete plan _doesn't want to..._

Bile inches up his throat just thinking about it. 

To distract himself he thinks of _her_ , of the gorgeous, rosy blush that suffused her face as she halted just outside the elevator, mortified at her late arrival. 

_Oh, how he wants to make her blush some more. Has she ever even been touched? He doubts it. She practically radiates innocence, like a halo. He wants to bask in her light, worship her, wants to gently circle his tongue around her soft, delectable nipples, watch them tighten into peaks as the red flush of arousal darkens her flesh. Then he'll plunder her mouth, kiss her senseless until her lips are swollen and tender. He wants to lay her across his lap, caress the smooth curve of her pert, perfect ass until she squirms and moans, before drawing back his hand and smacking down hard, so his handprint stands out in stark relief against pale skin -_

He jolts, spins on his heel, the scowl on his face deepening to a snarl as he hears his name shouted from the direction of the kitchens. “Goddamn it!” he bellows, “what is it _now_?” 

The busboy currently sprinting towards him, his face scrunched in consternation, skids to a stop. He wrings his hands. “Monsieur Ren! The pastry girl!”

Ren doesn't ever allow himself to be seen _running_ in front of his staff. 

This time he makes an exception. 

* * *

He’s pacing the length of his office. 

Agitated. 

No, this is more. This is dangerously close to the sort of roaring, murderous rage that ends with shattered windows _bones_ and splintered doors _flesh and sinew_ and _bloodshed_. 

He doesn’t need that drink anymore. He needs to destroy someone. A _very specific someone_. 

However, the last thing he can do right now is risk ending up in jail, even for a night. 

But fuck. _Fuck!_

All he can think about is how horrifyingly light she was when he scooped her into his arms and rushed her to his office. How his breath caught in his throat as he curled his hand around her torso and felt the bony ridge of her ribcage. 

He nearly drops to his knees in relief when the doctor declares that her heart appears undamaged, that with proper nutrition and rest she will recover. 

It is now painfully clear that just like him, she is inextricably trapped by circumstance, with no obvious means of escape. 

He resolves, at that very moment, to change that. 

For both of them. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
